My morning was spent digging up crocosmia in the rain. I was fully ‘proofed and as warm and dry as could be expected in such circumstances. Whilst playing “spot the vagrant corm” I listened to my iPod on shuffle mode, doing my own semi-rhythmic shuffle when appropriate. I pondered the troubles of the world and the vagaries of life. It was then that it all became clear, that there was one certainty that I could cling to. Next year, in the very same area that I painstakingly removed every single last trace of croc, more will appear, laughing in my face.
For someone who professes to love plants, I spend an awful lot of time digging them up. Last week my latest victim was crocosmia, probably that Old Devil called Lucifer. Any guilt is alleviated by the fact that it is nigh on impossible to rid yourself of these admittedly attractive plants. This is due to that dastardly demon, evolution. This South African member of the iris family produces a fresh new corm each year which balances on top of the previous years’ contributions. To avoid popping out of the soil, some very clever contractile roots pull the whole chain down into the ground. These replaced corms will gradually will fade away but not until they have hung on for a while, as an insurance policy. For occasions such as this. When I have spent a morning digging up their compacted, matted bulk. It is at this point that one of these old timers (or perhaps more) will gently drop off the bottom only to emerge again next year in full crimson glory saying “ha, foiled you!”. Such is my life.